Rain
by Oldwickedsongs
Summary: In a rainstorm, the crew wait and dream, each after their fashion. Complete and utter fluff.


Author's Note: For Babbitt. My first and only Firefly hiccup and it makes me happy because for once I have written a yarn for a series as oppose to one character, probably the villain. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

**Rain**

**By: Lady Erised**

It was raining so hard that Wash had firmly planted Serenity in park and told Malcolm in two languages and one pantomime involving dinosaurs that this ship was going no where. Malcolm had given him a dark threatening look that had, Hoban Washburn been any one else, he would have shrunk back and dared the gods and goddesses of rain to keep them grounded. But, because he was Wash, and not someone else, and because his wife was the only person alive that could scare Malcolm as much as Malcolm scared Wash; he got his respite.

And Serenity sat there, parked in the rain.

Now a strange thing happens when one is trapped in a small space with a steady rain outside. There's a strange energy in the ship that was never there before. Without a job, but with provisions and full stomachs and restful, content minds; the crew is allowed to dream.

Kaylee is in the engine room, dreaming of her dress.

She has the engine running dry as she closes her eyes and tries to hear anything Serenity tries to tell her. But for some reason, the hum of Serenity and the percussion of rain reminds her of that time when she was a lady, all soft and smooth in her pink dress. She thinks of swish her dress made around her that sounds like the wind wiping the rain from Serenity's hull and she blushes at the picture of the old man who's strong hands and stronger voice had assured her she was just as lady as she needed to be.

Then, because no one's looking and who would care, she dreams of Simon. She pictures him in the ball: all pressed and folded exactly as he should in his suit of brown- no, blue because he looks nicer in it, and pictures him watching her from across the room.

Their eyes would meet, and she would smile and look away; unmoved. Simon would blush and continue to watch her with his surgeon's eye, covering and remembering every detail and perhaps entertaining the ungentlemanly thought of seeing her without her lovely gown.

He'd cross and blush again as she fanned herself and pretended not to notice. His voice would break when he asked her to dance. She would let him squirm in place before complying.

And there, under the rain and lights, and dreams; they'd dance. All nice and lady-like.

Malcolm and Inara are in her shuttle, dreaming of words.

Inara moves like water moves and reminds Malcolm of the rain. Malcolm moves like sand, rough and coarse and certain only that it can destroy fast and surely. He sits, and he's even awkward in that compared to her. Inara watches him out of the corner of her eye with a look both of amusing, and though she would never admit it, cruelty. She knows what she does to him. It's almost as cruel as what he does to her. She's just better at hiding it.

She is a Companion after all. She knows how to train each of her movements to speak of promise and desire. She became desire a long time ago. She is refinement, water, warmth and honey. She is smooth and silk and knows how to fold a man to her pleasure, how to enchant a woman into adoration. She knows everything of act and action and knows the difference.

Malcolm, on the other hand, feels his way through life. He's not smooth or silk or honey. He's all smiles and papers. There's nothing beyond his actions then them. When he hates, Malcolm can hate, when he smiles, he does so fully. He's like a child in the best of ways. He loves deep and with everything he has. He doesn't have to hide behind culture or companionship. He doesn't have to play by any finely tuned rules, doesn't have to act according to a script.

That's what she loves about him, because he's rough and feels. That's what he loves about her, because she's smooth and calming. They could be great they both know, if only.

And so they sit in the rain, basking in each other happily, dreaming they could be more.

Shepard Book sits in the kitchen, peeling potatoes while Simon Tam leafs through his Bible. They dream of better days. Book speaks in quiet unassuming words and tosses out words like faith and sympathy. They sound dead to Simon but he listens because he doesn't want to live in a world without them.

And Simon wants to tell him of the Alliance. Simon tells him of harsh lines, and navy suits that took apart River's brain and pieced her together like a project. He tells Book God's Country was taken by them and torn apart. He tells him, in anger and in hurt, that God is dead because God couldn't have yet them do this to his sister. Why would God do that? He tells him it makes no sense because nothing does anymore. He rants. Book listens. He wants to hear about healing and return.

So Book shares his dream with Simon. He tells him of long journeys that Promised People always have to take. He tells of him mad kings and visions. He tells Simon that its okay, sins get forgiven. Messiahs do come, and people do get healed. He tells him soon there will be a day when swords become ploughshares and lions and lambs play together. He tells him people who die come back and there's somewhere there's a place where River can run and not be tired.

And Simon dreams of believing those lies. He doesn't have the strength to, he tells Book, and Book just smiles. He tells Simon he has faith enough for both of them. He tells him that's what faith is.

Dreams.

Wash sits watching his wife undress and dreams of a family. He stares at the bronzed skinned goddess before him and knows everything he could have wanted in this world is given to him in her dark honeyed eyes. As a child, he lived on his little world staring at the sky and dreaming of worlds of actions and adventure. He dreamed of flying free without care or desire. He wanted to belong to nothing, and for a time, he could have even captured that. But he was wrong to dream that.

This. He thinks. This is the stuff dreams of made of.

Zoë catches the look in his eyes and walks to him, wrapping warm arms around his cold skin and pressing her full lips against his. He closes his eyes and pulls her nearer. This. This is a dream. A miracle. He wants this. Forever if possible.

He dreams of growing old with this vision of beauty. He dreams of bent backs and balding heads, and grubby children and dirtier grandchildren clustering around them. He dreams of quiet lands that spread out till eternity where he and Zoë can bicker about the weather, and the chores and the children.

He knows it couldn't happen. Zoë belongs to the sky like all angels do, and he, well, Wash isn't much good without his ship. He knows that. They both belong to the heavens, like leaves tumbling through space: weaving and whirling and wandering and clutching to each other despite their natures because quite simply they can't live without each other.

Still, he dreams.

River Tam dreams of paper people and Popsicle sticks. She dreams of now back then and sometimes, when the rain hits the ship's hull just right, she can dream of then when she wants too. Sometimes she sees tomorrow on Tuesday if you can believe that, and occasionally the moaning stars will silence just long enough to let her know that underneath the secrets and sorrows, she is River.

She dreams she's River.

The River she sees in Simon's eyes. The one who smiled and laughed like rain. The one who couldn't dance even though she tried. She dreams of three legged dogs, and upside down trains, and home. She dreams of green bubbles, and math equations and last night's dinner. She thinks for a moment, she can be Simon's sister again. She dreams to be peel back all those layers that are laid over her like winter clothing to find River again and maybe play with her.

She dreams of ending the nightmares the Alliance told her to dream.

She watches Jayne watching her dream and wonders if he dreams and of what?

Of swords, and shivs, and blades, and bank vaults and gambles, and gambits, and gestures?

Or does Jayne dream of values, and virtues, and pastures, and peace, and home, and hope?

Jayne looks up suddenly, catching her in his gaze like a hawk watching a rodent. River shrinks back and stops her dreaming-muse to study him too. His head tilts to one side. She mimics it, trying not to peer into what lies behind the eyes. It's rude. It's Jayne. He twirls the knife he holds in his hand- tip twisting on the top of his finger like he would spin a pencil. She reaches forward and does the same with her fingernail.

He doesn't trust her. She dreams he did. If she was better and not... He would trust her. He would look at her like Kaylee looked at Simon. He would…

Suddenly Jayne moves like a dream. He impales the knife he's twirling on the side of his wall as easily as a dream would twist and fold on itself. Then, standing Jayne leans over and grabs River's hand to drag her somewhere.

She allows him, and is surprised when he pulls her outside into the rain. He releases her hands and spreads his own to each side, head facing the rain. She thinks he smiles then and waves his hands wordlessly around like a wet bird. She does the same. He swings in a full circle and waits for her to do the same.

River smiles oddly as she splashing in the soggy grass under her toe and laughs as he tries to do the same thing with his heavy boots.

He's acting insane.

She is insane.

It works out well.

It's a nice dream, after all.


End file.
